Triptych of Pain
by LillieGrey
Summary: Grief in three passages, a small progression on life after what's happened with Robin and how those who loved him learn to cope.
1. Unspoken I Love Yous

She never got to say the words. She felt them, feels them to the very core, to the severed edges of her soul that used to hold a piece of his, until it was violently ripped from her, leaving her bare and bleeding in its wake.

She never got to say the words, and now she never will.

This isn't like last time. There is no peace in speaking to the open air, hoping he will hear. There is no comfort in knowing he is in a better place. There is nothing, because he is nothing; his very existence shattered before her eyes and there was nothing she could do but memorize the last ghostly image of his smile, the featherlight brush of his fingers, as he faded away.

She loves him; loved him. And now she's lost him before she ever really had a chance to.


	2. Whispered Words

They all whisper and worry, eyes tracking her every move waiting for the cord to snap, for the delicate tethers chaining The Queen to fray and release her. What they don't know, what they can't possibly comprehend, is that The Queen feeds on vengeance, she swallows anger and grief and channels them into dangerously sharp eyes and flame-licked fingers. She needs the bitter, acrid taste of darkness to thrive and survive, but Regina? Regina is hollow. Regina is numb.

She is the unlucky owner of the most resilient heart, she will survive this, her heart will beat life into her battered body, but nothing can repair the damage of her shattered soul.

She can smell the fear and the anxiety drifting off of them in waves, feel the pulsing ripple it creates in the air around her. It tickles something deep down, something hungry and decaying, the seductive whisper of revenge calling for her to answer and do what they all expect, but then the scent of pine and earth drifts to her on the wind and the memory of him snuffs out the embers of hate before they have a chance to catch flame.

She is with him, always; even when he is no longer with her.

They circle and smother, showing up at the house with casserole dishes and takeout containers from Granny's, but she can't bring herself to eat. She pretends for Henry and Roland, pushing bits of kale salad around on a plate until the leaves bruise and wilt, their diminished size giving the impression she's eaten more than she actually has. She's polite in her grief, letting them gawk and grimace, swallowing their condolences and choking back the anger that bubbles up to reply.

Ache swells and spreads, covering the cracks she knows they must see, but at least this time she is not alone.

She is with him, always, even when he is no longer with her


	3. Her Little Prince

She finds him surrounded by pages, the ozone taint of magic choking the air and the buzzing tick of his quill scratching across the paper. Each line sends a chill across her skin, a fluttering of recognition like someone walking across her grave. When she sees what he's writing, the same story scribbled across all of the pages scattered on the floor, the feeling morphs into a heavy, cold weight in the pit of her stomach.

"Henry, what are you doing?" she whispers, shaking hands lifting a page from the floor, delicate fingers tracing over the ghostly blue image of Robin on the paper, his hand raised as if to touch the 2D version of herself in the illustration.

He keeps writing, dipping the quill into the ink then furiously flooding the page with words, letters and images coming to life as he drags the tip across the paper. His hair is a mess, the ends sticking up at odd angles as if he's run his hands through it one too many times. His shoulders hunched and tense as if he's been writing for hours.

"Henry?" She tries again, her voice soft, but he doesn't respond. "Henry. Stop." She commands, dropping the page she'd been holding to join the pile of its copies on the floor, as she curls one hand around his shoulder and the other wraps around his wrist, forcing him to stop.

He releases a frustrated groan, flinging the quill down onto the desk, shaking off her hands. She steps back, hands raised, waiting for him to turn and answer her.

"I'm sorry Mom," he sighs, his hands raking through his hair again. "I'm sorry...I thought if I...I thought I could…" He's still staring at the page, refusing to look at her.

"Henry, look at me."

He turns in his chair, peeking up at her and she's suddenly reminded of when he was five years old and she caught him snooping through his Christmas presents, he has the same look of caught defeat painted across his face and it makes her smile through her concern.

"That's better," she says, combing her fingers through his hair, taming it back into place. "What are you doing?" She asks again, fixing him with a stern look, her fingers moving down to grasp his chin.

He takes a deep breath, his words flooding out on the exhale, "I know I can't bring him back, dead is dead, that's what the Apprentice said, but I thought if I wrote it down, if I _tried_ hard enough I could just change it. Just a little bit. Just enough that he'd at least have an afterlife. That we could go down and rescue him the way Emma did Hook. Or at least give him the chance to move on, to go to the better place he deserves where he could see Marian again, and one day Roland...and you."

"Oh Henry," she sighs, tears gathering in her eyes before she can blink them away.

"I've tried Mom. I've tried _so hard_ , but it just keeps coming out the same every time." He grumbles, his frustration bleeding into his words.

"Because as the Author it's your job to tell the stories as they are, sweetheart, not the way we wish they were." She flicks her wrist, all the pages scattered across his room gathering into a neat stack in her waiting hand.

"I know, but.."

"No. No buts." She snaps her fingers, the stack of papers disappearing from her hands into a puff of purple smoke, only leaving the one he was working on on top of his desk.

"But you're a hero now! You helped defeat Hades, you broke Pan's curse, you saved everyone! What's the point of being the Author if I can't help my own mother keep her happy ending?!" He's shouting, the exhaustion and turmoil of the last week catching up and spilling over into angry words that quickly devolve into shuddering sobs.

" _Shhh_ ," she soothes, kneeling and gathering him into her arms.

"It's just not fair," he hiccups into her shoulder.

"I know baby," she coos. "I know," she repeats, rubbing her hand up and down his back, the practiced familiarity of a mother's touch calming him until his crying calms to quiet sniffles and deep breaths.

She waits until he's settled, his breath washing against her skin in even puffs before she pushes his shoulders gently away so she can look him in the eye.

"This is not how I wanted things to go, how any of us wanted it end up, but Robin died," she has to stop at that, swallow against the lump of emotion threatening to close her throat. This is for Henry, to make him understand, to help her son grieve and move on, so she chokes down her own ache and powers through. "Robin died a hero, protecting those he loves. True love is sacrifice, and he loved me. Truly. He gave up his life knowing what it meant, trying to change that would be dishonoring his sacrifice and all the things he stood for, the things that mattered to him."

"I know," he finally agrees, "but it's so unfair. He deserved better."

"Yes, he did."

"And so do you," he argues, but she's not quite ready to agree with that one, so she just gives him a watery smile, tipping his chin so she can press a lingering kiss to his forehead.

"Now, my Little Prince," she clears her throat, retrieving his quill from its place on the desk, sliding it into his hand. "I think you have a story to finish."

"Yes, I do." He agrees, adjusting his grip on the quill. "Will you stay while I finish?" He asks, as he settles back into his char.

"Of course," she smiles moving to stand slightly behind his chair where she can see the words as he fills the page.

He dips the quill back into the ink, a determined look settling over his face before he bends to his task. She watches just over his shoulder as her final moments with the man she loved glow with magic before settling into black-inked permanence, the image of the two of them standing together gradually transforming from sketch to outline to fully colored illustration as the story goes on. The same shiver she felt when she entered the room passes over her as he finishes the last sentence, setting the quill to rest by the ink well.

"Goodbye, Robin," Henry whispers, his hand passing over the page.

"Goodbye, my love," she echoes, kissing the tips of her fingers and pressing them against the page, before reaching over and closing the book, finally putting her soulmate to rest.

She runs her fingertips over the worn leather cover one last time before holding her hand out to Henry. He slides his hand into her open palm, linking their fingers as he stands, following as she pulls him out of the room.

They aren't past it yet, they won't be for a long while, but they have each other to lean on, a hand to hold when the grief is just a little to hard to bear. And they have a shared hope, a hope for a happy ending they will claim together, one day at a time.


End file.
